The archives here had this tranquil sort of quiet, the kind that doesn't weigh down on the back of your neck. Full of dust motes and old words that had been read too many times, the atmosphere there added a sense of comfort to one's loneliness.
Damien eased into the chair placed opposite to Valen, the table between them stacked with scrolls and a dim scent of pressed black ink.
Their eyes met, and Valen's expression shifted in a subtle, deliberate way that never quite gave away his intent.
"May I see your Glyph? That's the Veiled Light, right?" he asked.
Damien stiffened. Not out of fear or suspicion, but instead discomfort and confusion. The request wasn't unnatural, Exorcists often compared glyphs to refine their technique. However, something about Valen's tone made it sound like more than casual curiosity. Before the words of refusal could even leave Damien's mouth, Valen leaned forward, his presence pulling at the space between them.
His face drew closer than Damien was expected, close enough that the heat of Valen's breath brushed against Damien's cheeks. His shoulders tightened, an involuntary flinch followed by a goosebump barely concealed.
Comparatively, Valen's gaze was unblinking, judging, and analysing.
The Veiled Light stirred softly, with lines of Solence blooming faintly across his cortex.. At the exact same moment, Valen's own glyph answered in kind, its lines flaring with sharp geometric precision. For a single heartbeat, the two patterns aligned in harmony, singing the music of rhythmic, divine perfection.
Valen noticed Damien blink. His composure finally broke as he pulled himself away in a hurry. His mouth parted as though to explain himself, then closed again. Eventually, he managed to break the silence swirling around their table,
"Sorry! I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." His voice softened. "I was just… curious. Your glyph—your channeling—it feels… similar to mine."
Damien had turned around seeing how embarrassed Valen was at his own action, but this renewed his curiosity.
"Similar? How?"
Valen lowered his voice.
"My tutor—you know, Orion. He comes from an old, forgotten order. Cultists, really. They don't exist anymore, but… back in his time, they preached purity above humanity. They would take children and—through relentless training—force them to merge with Solence itself. No room for doubt, no room for anything human. Those who failed… didn't survive."
"Is it alright for me to know this," Damien asked nervously.
"Oh don't worry, it's recorded history. Orion's practically a bigger celebrity than I am."
He paused, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the table. "Both you and I, the way we summon… it mirrors theirs.
Damien replied uncomfortably, "I'm sorry to disappoint you but I don't hail from any secret order of child labourers. Just a village idiot who got lucky."
"Threat not, neither do I," Valen raised his palm up as to further convey the sentiment, "my master taught me everything I know."
Then, with a small pause and a heavy sigh, he added,
"Orion doesn't push me like that." His brow furrowed, his thoughts clearly souring something in him. "And I… I told him once that he wasn't pushing me enough. I thought he was going easy on me. But now… maybe he was protecting me from becoming… something hollow."
For a moment, his face carried a quiet frustration—not directed at Orion, but at himself.
Damien leaned back, weighing the confession.
"You don't need to feel bad about wanting more from yourself," he said. "If anything, it's admirable. Someone as strong as you still wants to get stronger? That alone makes you worthy of being the Sainted—someone people can rely on."
Valen's lips curved faintly, almost shyly, as though unused to being reassured. "That does make me feel better, actually. Thanks, Damien"
"Good," Damien said, standing and gathering the nearest sheaf of parchment. "I'm in a bit of a hurry, but if you see me again, let's chat some more, dear saviour."
Valen's chair scraped lightly against the stone floor as he stood, too. "Then I'll see you back at the guild hall."
———————————————————————
The study at the guild hall smelled of old wax with a scent of dried parchment mixed into it. Damien closed the door behind him and set the lamp low, the golden circle of light just enough to keep the shadows from creeping in too far. He leaned against a small wooden desk with his palms pressed flat against the wounded wood, rotting from wear.
He threw in front of him a few books he got from the archives. Most of them held information on the Dragon's Maw raid, some others contained clippings of the news surrounding it.
Then, he started to collect his thought.
Someone had used witherflow at the academy that day. Not the refined channeling the Veyrants were born into, but the corrupted strain of it—the kind that rotted from within. The moment it latched onto you, it rewrote your balance, bending Solence and anything pure until they broke under the strain. For an Exorcist who had awakened to Solence once, the two forces should be incompatible. They would tear each other apart, mana hemorrhaging from the inside until the exterior failed.
With the sole exception of Damien, of course.
He knew the truth intimately: no one else in the empire's history was like him. The corruption didn't consume him because he had been born into it. His balance wasn't stolen, it was forged in both light and shadow from the start.
So how could there be another?
If an Exorcist truly was using the Witherflow, there were only two possibilities. Firstly, they were born into it, like him, but that idea was worth putting aside because it holds too many assumptions and unknown variables. I mean, there were no traces of Solence in their glyphcraft. They simply imitated everything using their corruption.
The other possibility was that a non-awakened person had somehow found a way to anchor themselves against the corruption without losing their sanity.
That too was supposed to be impossible. And if someone had achieved it, it practically meant that a vessel capable of hosting a parasite from hell was walking amongst the divine ranks of Exorcists.
Damien made his way to the shelf, pulling out a leather-bound volume from it. The title was barely legible under centuries of dust: The Art of the Wither and Alchemy . He flipped through some old diagrams, looking for patterns explaining the counterflow. He came across a few pages that suggested some things. The ink was faded, and the terms were archaic, but the theory was unmistakable. There were ways to dampen corruption and control the wither to a certain degree. But every method described here ended in death, madness, or full-scale possession of the subjects eventually.
If someone had succeeded where all these attempts failed, they weren't just dangerous—they were walking proof of a heresy the empire would kill to erase.
Damien let the book fall shut with a muted thump. The shadows along the far wall seemed to lean closer, as if listening.
I need to know who it is. And I can't afford to let them find him first.
Damien sat back at his desk, tapping the end of his quill against a list of names. He had copied down some of the important titles he found in the records and notes. He knew that at least one of them held the key to uncovering the mystery behind Raphael. One name caught his eye again: Loric Evan. The margin note he'd scribbled beside it read,
"Retired. Manic. Still alive."
It shouldn't be difficult to track down a retired, mentally wounded soldier from the past. The empire would likely drift their gaze away even if suspicion arose. After all, in the marching of war, no-one cared for the souls that can't serve in the battles they dedicated their entire lives to be a part of.
So, he decided to start his chase wherever that man was.
He set the quill down and made his way back to the street market.
———————————————————————
Evening was nigh when he arrived at the cobblestone alleys flooded with hawkers who shouted over one another until their voices blended. The marketplace growl was at full throttle, passing through it without having your feet stomped was a task set for only the stealthiest of assassins. Damien set word to the usual merchant through an errand boy. Frequenting a shop in the flea markets as a student of the academy would indeed raise some eyebrows. By the time the bells marked the third hour, he had found his answer.
———————————————————————
Loric Evan lived in the poor districts, well past the point where the streets narrowed to crooked veins of brick and rot.
The place Damien found him in was less a house than an accumulation of repairs. Inside, the receptionist was covered in chaos. A mess of chairs standing on three legs, overturned crates serving as tables, and a single attendant who seemed greatly busy with carving out the initials of his loved one alongside his own into the counter.
It took three rounds of convincing before the attendant pointed with a chin toward a dim stairwell.
Loric was sitting on a bed with one leg folded beneath him and the other missing from the knee down. His face was a ruin of old burns, the skin warped and discolored. His eyes, though — they still moved like those of a soldier, quick and searching.
"Loric Evan," Damien began, "My name is Virgil. I'm looking into the Dragon's Maw raid for a news article our publishing-office is currently working on. I need to know—"
"You're late," the man interrupted, voice gravelled and dry. "It's already dying."
"What is?"
"That man, I saw him. You have to believe me. I saw him enter the fracture!", he stared at Damien with a gaze full of one single emotion.
Fear.
Damien queried, "Who are you talking about?"
"Raphael."
Damien halted.
"He never tasted his first death," Loric continued, leaning closer. "But his second death's coming. You think the battle was over? It's still chewing through him. Still chewing…"
"The bell tolled twice, but the third never rang."
"The wings had folded, but the fire wasn't out."
"Run."
"Run."
"Run."
"Run."
His words fell into a mumble, looping back on themselves until they became sound without meaning. No amount of pressing drew him back into clarity.
But Damien was delighted. He had gotten his answer.
Raphael is alive.